


Dust to Dust

by araliya



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 12:18:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15291381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araliya/pseuds/araliya
Summary: A World War Two AU. Chris goes to fight, and Darren waits for him.





	Dust to Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Dust to Dust by the Civil Wars.
> 
> Set in England.

_January 3, 1940_ **  
**

 

Neither of them register at the recruitment offices. The boys who do it- the younger ones, at least- do it to impress a girl or to chase the thrill of war. Newly eighteen (some, younger, if they can get away with it), they queue up, eager to serve and earn the pride that comes with it.

 

Chris pretends he isn’t old enough. He could pass for seventeen, or even less, and the recruitment officers don’t call him out as he passes by the queues. Darren, however, doesn’t need to pretend. He isn’t fit to serve; a blow to the leg from a horse when he was younger shattered his knee cap so severely it was nearly unsalvageable. He walks with a limp, staggered enough to deter the officers.

 

Neither of them believe in the glory of war. Neither of them want to leave one another. Neither of them think, as telegram after telegram arrive from the front lines, that they want to be the recipient, falling to their knees before they even read the message; already knowing.

 

***

 

_April 28, 1942_

 

There is a call-up letter in their mailbox addressed,  _Christopher Paul Colfer_. It is Darren who finds it. He wants to hide it, wants to throw it in the flames of the fireplace and watch it burn, letters shrivelling up and turning to incomprehensible dust.

 

In the end, he leaves it on the kitchen table. Chris has just turned 20 and Darren is kidding himself if he had thought they could ever escape the war.  

 

***

 

Chris looks painfully beautiful in the uniform, although he had laughed, and said that the khaki washed him out. Darren had kissed him, and told him otherwise.

 

He watches as the train leaves and feels like an idiot amongst the crying girlfriends and wives and mothers. He should be there with Chris. He should be protecting him.

 

Chris hadn’t told Darren that he was scared- not even that he was in the slightest bit apprehensive. But Darren had known better. He had known it in the way Chris’ hands had shaken as they smoothed Darren’s lapel (the most intimate they could be in the light of day, people swarming around them). He had known it in the way Chris’ fingers turned white on the windowsill as he waved goodbye.

 

He had known in the way, the night before, Chris had clung to him- helpless.

 

***

 

August 27 1942

 

_To my dearest D,_

 

_Libya is so hot that I can hardly stand it. Isn’t it just my luck that I would be sent to the North African Desert? If the Germans don’t kill us, the heatstroke surely will. Not to mention the disease. And the food. And the scorpions._

 

_I’m sorry, I’ve not been out here for even a month and I’m already boring you with my complaints. There’s not much else to talk about, you see. The desert is just that- desert. Sand and shrub as far as the eye can see, tanks (the bloody eyesores) scattered all over the place, and tents to ward off against the night wind and the occasional spray of bullets. Dive bombers if we’re particularly unlucky._

 

_I know I’m scaring you with all of this talk. I’m sorry. I wish you didn’t have to worry about me so much, which I know you are._

 

_I keep a photograph of you in my breast pocket. If the others ask, I tell them you’re my brother. I’m quite sure they don’t believe me, (what with my voice, and you looking about as much like me as one of the Indian soldiers), but no one really cares. In fact, I’d be surprised if they did- we’re constantly being lectured against ‘fraternising’, for fear of venereal diseases like gonorrhea and syphilis. No matter how hard they try, the lectures really aren’t doing much against the scores of infected men that keep cropping up._

 

_There, I’ve got you laughing now. Or more likely, wincing._

 

_I really hope you’re well, darling. I won’t torture you anymore with my complaining- you hear enough of that from me at home. Speaking of home, how are things at the farm? Has Charles come down to help you with this season’s crops? I hope he has- you work yourself too hard._

 

_I must get going soon- we’re doing a practice advance today with the Australians. They’re all used to the heat- damn them._

 

_Anyway, goodbye my love. Rest easy and give the dog a cuddle from me. I’ll approve him getting on the bed just this once if it means you’re not sleeping alone at night._

 

_Always yours,_

 

_C_

 

***

 

_November 17 1942_

 

_My darling D,_

 

_We had a ghastly sandstorm last night. Thankfully we were all in our tents, but when we woke in the morning, everything was smothered by a layer of dust about three inches thick. I feel terrible for the poor soul who had to guide one of the American fighter planes that landed in the midst of it. I’m sure he must be still shaking the sand out of his ears._

 

_I asked one of the officers about leave. Bad news, sweetheart. I have to serve for at least fifteen months, and even then, most of the time they give me would be spent on the trip there and back. They tell me it’s not worth it, but I would give everything for even an hour with you._

 

_I miss you, D. With every fibre of my being. I don’t feel whole most of the time, and out there, I hardly feel anything at all. I hate it. I am told I am a skilled fighter, but to use that skill to murder? They are still humans, like you and I. They have parents and siblings and husbands and wives and lovers._

 

_We were right. This is all for nothing._

 

_Yours, with a thousand kisses to make up for the ones I haven’t been able to give you,_

 

_C_

 

***

 

_March 22 1943_

 

_My beloved D,_

 

_You are my first thought as I wake, and my last thought as I fall asleep. You are my life in love, and war and death. The knowledge that you are safe, away from this hell, is keeping me sane._

 

_I love you._

 

_Your only,_

 

_C_

 

***

 

_May 29, 1943_

 

There hasn’t been a letter in two months. This is the longest Darren has gone without the comfort of fine paper pages between his fingers, coming with them the knowledge that Chris is alive. Not safe, but alive.

 

At home, in a village which has more sheep than people, an overwhelming sense of helplessness overcomes him. Darren doesn’t have the distraction of the air raids, heart perpetually panicked, things packed and ready to flee. He doesn’t have the sirens and the fire engines and the gas masks hanging off wrists.

 

He can only sit there as time flows by, as slow and viscous as treacle. Cooper, their sheep dog, knows something is wrong. He props his head up on Darren’s knees, eyes imploring.

 

“He’s coming back,” Darren assures him. “He’s coming back.”

 

His voice wavers, and Cooper doesn’t look convinced. Darren feels as if he is going mad. Sleep escapes him, and he does his work on the farm in a trance. The quiet, rolling hills and the cream plaster walls, which had at first, been an escape for the two of them, now feels like a cage. He feels trapped- trapped by his own dead leg, trapped by the farm, trapped by the overwhelming inability to get to Chris.

 

***

 

News has come from the North African front that the axis powers have surrendered. Chris was fighting on that front. He should be home soon, if not already.

 

Darren avoids the telegraph boys, also known as the ‘angels of death’, like the plague. Instead of relief at the knowledge that Chris is no longer in danger, he feels an inexplicable sensation of apprehension. It grows like a tumor in the pit of Darren’s stomach, unfurling and infecting the rest of his body.

 

He sits at the kitchen table in a daze, staring at Chris’ letters. He counts every _I love you_  like they’re the sherbet sweets that Chris likes so much, letting them melt on his tongue. They taste like kisses.

 

***

 

Charles, his brother, is here.

 

Darren thinks he’s going to go out to the fields, like he always does, in case there’s something that needs doing that Darren can’t. Instead, Charles comes to the table where he sits. In his hand is a letter.

 

“You got rid of the letterbox,” he says in greeting.

 

Immediately Darren is up. “What is that?” he asks, eyes drawn to the scrap of paper. His voice shakes minutely. “Chuck-  _God_ , please don’t tell me-”

 

“No! Jesus, Darren, it’s not that,” Charles says, quick to dispel the vague hysteria in Darren’s eyes. “Listen to me-  _it’s not that_.”

 

Darren expects the tension in his chest to dissolve, but it doesn’t. “Then what? I knocked down the damned letterbox for a  _reason_ -”

 

“-Chris is coming home.”

 

“...what?”

 

“Chris is coming home,” Charles repeats carefully.

 

“Why- why are you saying it like that?”

 

***

 

_May 31, 1943_

 

The train heaves into the station, sounding as if it may collapse at any moment, wheels screeching to a halt. Darren thinks it sounds rather like a pig before slaughter. Chris had always let Darren take charge of tasks like that- he’d blanch at even the sight of the carcasses at the butcher’s.

 

The doors slide open, and passengers start to pour out, some of them uniformed. Darren notices, with building unease, that all of them are injured.

 

He stands there stock-still, as people around him greet their loved ones.

 

Then, a familiar figure climbs down the steps.

 

Chris is leaner than Darren remembers. His face is a little scruffier than usual, hair cut choppy, bruises lingering under his lower lashes. His uniform sits tighter around his right arm and right leg, and he walks with a slight, uncertain waver.

 

But then he looks up- _looks right at Darren_ \- and the world is a clear blue.

 

Suddenly, all Darren knows is the feeling of Chris in his arms; pulling him close, pressing his lips to the sliver of his exposed neck and drinking in the heady, familiar scent of  _Chris, Chris, Chris_. Warm and real and  _alive_.

 

He doesn’t realise he’s been repeating Chris’ name like a mantra until he hears, “ _Darren_.” The words are soft, and just a little bit admonishing. “ _People can see us_.”

 

Darren steps back, not letting go of Chris’ shoulders. “I love you,” he says.

 

Chris’ eyes soften. They are bright in his otherwise weary face. “I love you too.”

 

***

 

The spoon clinks against the china teacup rhymically. It is loud and musical in the quiet of their kitchen. Chris uses his left hand to stir the tea, the action unrefined and shaky. He is right-handed.

 

“Lover,” Darren says quietly. He’s sitting close to Chris, itching to be even closer, to make up for every touch they were deprived of. “What’s wrong?”

 

Chris doesn’t meet his eye, instead putting the spoon aside slowly. He watches the tea swirl like a whirlpool until it settles into a calm, flat plateau.

 

“I am so sorry,” he starts quietly, “that I couldn’t write. I’m sorry that I had to worry you. Not knowing where I was- or even whether or not I was alive- must have been torture.”

 

Darren reaches across the table to cover Chris’ trembling hand. “I never really let myself think about it,” he admits. “In a fit of insanity I even knocked down the letterbox.”

 

A smile quirks the corner of Chris’ lips. “I saw.”

 

He takes a breath, and pulls up his right hand, which had been sitting in his lap. “I was shot,” he says, and Darren’s stomach drops onto the kitchen floor. “In my right leg and my right arm. I was lucky- had my arm moved even an inch, the bullet would have gone right through my side and done a whole lot more damage.” The hand holding Darren’s squeezes. “My leg fared alright. I mean, I still can’t move it without wincing, but I’m told it will heal. My arm, not so much. The nerves are apparently so damaged that I most likely won’t be able to regain movement in my right hand.” He looks up at Darren, smiling a little. “It’s quite convenient, I think. I’m of no use if I can’t even do so much as pull a trigger.”

 

Darren laughs, shortly and wetly.

 

“I’m back, Dare,” Chris says softly. “They can’t take me out there again. I’m staying right here with you.” He pushes his chair back to make to get up, but Darren is there first, wrapping his arms around Chris’ neck. He clings on tightly, feeling the tears slip down his cheeks. Darren unwittingly slides to his knees, laying his head in Chris’ lap.

 

“Without you,” he whispers, “I was not whole either.”

 

Chris’ fingers come up to cradle Darren’s head. “My beloved,” he whispers.

 

***

 

_April 28, 1949_

 

Darren wakes to a scream. Chris is sitting up beside him, eyes unfocused, breathing in deep, rasping breaths. A thin sheen of sweat lingers over his skin, seeping down his chest and across his shoulders. Darren pushes himself upright immediately, laying a cool hand on the side of Chris’ face.

 

He turns Chris’ cheek towards him carefully, until the glassiness dissipates and his pupils come into focus. “Love,” Darren calls out softly. “Are you with me?”

 

Chris swallows, nodding shakily. “Yes.” He brings up his left hand to cover Darren’s. “I’m with you.”

 

Darren presses a kiss to Chris’ temple, drawing him into his arms. “Do you remember what it was?” he asks quietly.

 

Shell shock, coined after the Great War, for the men who still had a war raging inside their heads long after the fighting was over. War Neurosis, Battle Fatigue, Combat Stress- new names surfacing for the same, debilitating terror. They all meant the same thing.

 

“Flashes,” Chris whispers against Darren’s shoulder. “You were there. Your l-leg, it had been blown right off. I had to pick pieces of shrapnel out of your thigh.”

 

Darren feels vaguely sick. “I’m alright,” he says instead. “We’re both alright.”

 

After a while, Chris stops trembling. He pulls back, apologetic. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

 

“I’ve always told you to wake me, Chris.”

 

Chris smiles and presses a kiss to Darren’s lips. He smooths the crease between Darren’s eyebrows, albeit shakily. “I’m alright, lover.”

 

“We’re alright,” Darren repeats.

 


End file.
